delusional about fictional characters

His chains are the first thing you feel—cool metal kissing your chest, clinking when he pushes you down onto the mattress. The weight of them makes it feel less like jewelry and more like a shackle, like you’ve already been claimed and catalogued. Jimmy looms above you, tangled hair falling like a greasy galo around his face, that crooked grin curling wider when you try to twist away.

“I don’t care if it takes all night,” he growls, voice carrying like a sermon in an empty chapel, “ye will submit.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand fists in your jaw, forcing your mouth open as he slides down your body, teeth scraping against your ribs, tongue filthy and wet when he buries his face between your thighs. He eats you like he’s starving, sucking at your clit until your legs kick against his shoulders. The cross around his neck swings and smacks your stomach with every thrust of his tongue, and when you try to close your thighs, he digs his rings into your skin until you yelp.

“Don’t fight it. Open up. Give it ta me,” he mutters against you, words muffled, soaked in your slick, but the conviction is still there, unshakable. When you come the first time, it’s with your back arched, his laugh rumbling against your cunt as he licks you through it, like he always knew your body would betray you first.

By the time he’s hauling you up and flipping you onto your stomach, you’re already shaking, sweat sticking to the sheets. He doesn’t bother with prep—he’s already hard, already leaking, grinding the weeping crown of his cock against your dripping folds until you sob into the pillow. Then he thrusts in, brutal, stretching you to the hilt with one savage push.

“Tha’s it,” he hisses, one hand pressing the back of your neck down while the other yanks your hips back against him. The chains clatter with every slam of his hips, like a soundtrack to your undoing. “Listen ta tha’—wee cunt chokin’ on me. Ye were made for this, aye?”

Every thrust is a punishment, every slap of his hips a demand. He pounds you until the headboard rattles, until you’re crying into the sheets. And Jimmy—Jimmy only gets louder, preaching filth in that rasping voice like he’s got a crowd to impress.

“Think ye’ve got will? Think ye can hold out against me? Pathetic. Yer mine now. Every inch, every sound—mine.”

You come again with a broken scream, clenching down around him so hard he curses, rutting through it, chasing his own release. He pulls out at the last second, fist pumping his cock as he drags you onto your back. His eyes gleam wild in the dim light, mouth wet, chest heaving.

“Open up,” he orders, thumb smearing your spit across your cheek when you hesitate. He strokes faster, groaning through gritted teeth until he spills hot across your lips, your chin, the gold cross lying heavy against your throat.

Jimmy drags the smeared chain through the mess, pressing it down into your skin as if to mark you, eyes burning into yours.

The devil himself stood across the ballroom, draped in ceremonial black and gold, the crest of his house stitched over his heart like a challenge no one dared answer. Candlelight slid over the sharp lines of his jaw, catching on that smirk — the exact shade of trouble that sent noble ladies fluttering and made you long to empty your wine glass straight into his infuriatingly handsome face.

Your future husband. Lord Remmick.

Ever disdainful. Ever smug. And, regrettably, yours to suffer.

If someone had told you, five years ago, fresh off the dizzying revelation that you were the Princess of Genovia, that you would one day be forced into marrying the most disdainful man in the entire continent, you would have tripped over your own feet laughing. Not the polite, court-appropriate kind of laugh, but the unladylike, snorting kind that earned you a scolding from your etiquette tutor.

Back then, your life had been a whirlwind of tiaras, state dinners, and learning which fork was for salad — all wrapped in the blissful belief that fairy tales ended with charming suitors and dances under starlit balconies. You had not factored in political alliances, scheming councils, or the fact that your so-called prince would be a smug, sharp-tongued viper of a man whose smirk could curdle milk.

And yet, here you were — gown fitted, crown straight, patience worn to threads — about to pledge your life to Lord Remmick. 

A man whose only real intention was the crown — and who, despite a perfectly aimed stiletto to his Valentino-covered toe, still managed to plaster on a charming smile for your grandmother. That was all it took for him. One evening of calculated charm and he was in the game.

You, on the other hand, had the meltdown of the century. Doors slammed, tiaras nearly thrown, an entire security detail pretending not to hear your creative vocabulary. But all it took to silence you was a sharp, ice-cold reminder: the deadline was closing in, and if you didn’t act, the crown — your crown — would be handed over to his family.

So out of pure spite — and a truly obscene amount of bribery — you closed in. Months after your proposal, the battle lines hadn’t blurred, but the public still demanded their fairy tale. Appearances had to be kept before you were to be wedded, crowns polished, and photographers fed their happily-ever-after illusion.

So instead of your well-timed curtsies and that bright, regal smile your grandmother adored, you gave them the bare minimum. You took appearances seriously, and just appeared. Present, breathing, adorned in satin and jewels — but nothing more. No warmth. No pretense.

The ride to his family’s Winter Gala had been a masterclass in mutual loathing. A long stretch of silence punctuated only by the occasional, precisely delivered insult, each of you aiming for the jugular without wrinkling your perfectly tailored clothes.

When you arrived, the palace ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and watching eyes. The music swelled, couples spun, and you made a point of finding the farthest corner from him.

Which is why you nearly choked on your champagne when a shadow fell over you and a familiar voice drawled, low and maddeningly polite,

“Your Highness,” he drawled, voice low and edged with amusement, “may I remind you that we are to be wed before the month is out? It would look rather suspicious if you refused me a dance.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just extended a gloved hand, smirk tugging at his mouth, like he already knew you’d hate every second of saying yes.

You placed your hand in his because not doing so would have been a public scandal, and you refused to give the gossips a feast. His palm was warm against yours, his fingers curling just enough to make it clear who was leading, even before you reached the center of the floor.

The orchestra shifted into a slow, regal waltz. All eyes turned toward you.

“Smile, darling,” Remmick murmured as his arm slid around your waist, firm and deliberate, pulling you closer than was strictly necessary for the steps. “You look like you’re attending your own funeral.”

You tilted your head just enough for your crown to catch the light, meeting his gaze with a sugar-sweet smile. “And you look like the corpse they dressed up for the occasion.”

His mouth twitched — not quite a laugh, but dangerously close. “Careful, your sharp tongue is showing.”

“And you should be careful, your true intentions are showing,” you replied, letting your heel graze his boot in something that could have been an accident… if you wanted it to be.

The spin he led you into was sharper than necessary, bringing you back flush against him, his breath warm against your ear. “You keep digging for the worst in me, and one day you’ll find it.”

You swallowed, keeping your face neutral for the watching crowd. “If you think you’re frightening me, Remmick, you’re going to have to try harder.”

“Oh, princess,” he said, the words curling off his tongue with a low, knowing smirk that could have been mistaken for reverence by anyone not close enough to see the glint of mockery in his eyes. His hand pressed a fraction lower on your back, fingers deliberate, the pressure guiding you through the turn with an infuriating ease — as if the two of you were not enemies but perfectly matched partners. “That’s not the reaction I’m after.”

Your pulse betrayed you, thundering against your ribs. You loathed the way his gloved palm could feel the faintest shift in your breathing, the way he seemed to catalogue every flutter, every involuntary tremor. He was too close, his cologne a subtle mix of cedar and something darker, something entirely his. It filled your head, muddling your focus, threatening to turn each step into a stumble you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing.

“Still hate me?” he asked softly, lips barely moving.

“Every inch,” you said, voice steady even as his thumb brushed the edge of your ribs through the silk.

“Good,” he murmured, spinning you again — slower this time, lingering — “because you dance better when you’re furious.”

The music swelled to its final note, and he dipped you low enough that your breath caught, his smirk hovering just above your lips before he pulled you upright and let you go.

The applause crashed over you in waves, a polite roar from the glittering crowd. But it was nothing compared to the deafening pulse in your chest — or the far more dangerous heat coiling low in your stomach, dark and insistent, pooling between your thighs like a secret you refused to name.

“...Although hate-fucking him isn’t entirely off the table."

Days blurred into weeks, each one slipping by faster than you could brace for, and the wedding date loomed over you like an executioner’s shadow. The palace staff moved with an undercurrent of frantic purpose, every corridor humming with florists, tailors, and political advisors.

And then—he was here again.

Remmick, in all his infuriating glory, sweeping into the palace with his entire irritating procession: five impeccably dressed maids, thirty trunks of what you assumed were just variations of his already overindulgent wardrobe, three hulking bodyguards who looked like they’d swallowed pikes for breakfast, and an entire foyer’s worth of press eager to capture a fairytale portrait of the happy couple.

A happy couple you were not.

Your grandmother was already on the steps, smiling for the cameras. Remmick, of course, played along — the perfect groom-to-be, bowing, smirking, answering every question with a charming precision that made you want to scream.

You had managed exactly three minutes in his presence before it started. The thinly veiled jabs. The too-smooth comments about “your Highness’s preparations” and how you “must be so overwhelmed.” By the time he delivered the last one with that slow, deliberate smirk, you’d felt the heat rising in your chest — and not the good kind.

So you vanished.

Past the bustle of the main corridors, down a disused servants’ stair, you retreated into the farthest wing of the palace — a place only you knew well enough to navigate without getting lost. Your sanctuary.

The hidden library was quiet, tucked behind a false panel in an unused study. No one ever came here, not even the archivists. The air smelled faintly of leather and old paper, dust motes swirling lazily in the shafts of light from the high, arched windows. Here, the world — and Remmick — couldn’t reach you.

You closed the panel behind you and leaned against it, exhaling slowly, letting the silence settle around you like armor. You had just sunk into the deep velvet armchair in the far corner, skirts spilling over the side, when you heard it — the faint, deliberate click of the hidden panel shifting open.

You froze.

Of course, only one person in the palace would ignore locked doors and social boundaries with such confidence.

“Clever,” Remmick’s voice slid into the room before he did, low and amused. “I wondered where you slithered off to.”

You didn’t bother standing. “Go away. Surely the press is starving for another charming soundbite.”

He stepped inside, shutting the panel with a soft thunk that echoed far too loudly in the hush of the library. “They’ve had their fill for the day,” he said, walking between the tall shelves as if inspecting them. “I’m more interested in my bride-to-be hiding in a dusty room like a runaway schoolgirl.”

“Better that than parading around like a peacock,” you shot back.

His gaze flicked to you, sharp and dark, before he closed the distance in three long strides. “Do you know what they’ll say if the press finds out you’ve been sulking alone?” he asked, leaning forward until you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“Let them talk,” you said, steady, even though your pulse betrayed you.

His smirk curved slow. “You like to pretend you’re in control here. But the second I walk in…” His eyes traced your face, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. “…you start breathing like that.”

You stood, refusing to be cornered — only to find yourself stepping straight into the heat of him.

“You’re insufferable,” you said, low and sharp.

“And you,” he murmured, his voice dropping like velvet over steel, “are lying to yourself about how much you enjoy this.”

You could feel his breath when he spoke. It was infuriating — the way he always managed to blur the line between taunting you and… something else entirely. Something you hated yourself for wanting.

“Careful, Remmick,” you warned, even as your gaze flickered to his mouth for half a second too long.

“Always, princess,” he said with mock formality, though the roughness in his tone betrayed something hungrier.

Neither of you moved away. For a moment, the only sound in the library was the pounding in your chest.

He didn’t step back. His cologne invaded your senses, smelling faintly of saltwater and cedar, like he’d stepped straight out of a painting meant to tempt you.

“Tell me something,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours, his tone too even to be casual. “Why do you hate me so much?”

The question landed heavy between you, deliberate, as if he’d been saving it for just the right moment to corner you with it.

You gave a short, incredulous scoff and stepped sideways, but he moved with you, one hand catching the armrest of the chair, caging you in. “Do you want the short list,” you asked, voice dripping with false sweetness, “or the full dissertation?”

“I want the truth,” he replied, low enough that the words tangled in your breath. “Because every time you look at me, I can’t tell if you’re ready to kill me… or—” His gaze flickered down to your mouth for a heartbeat, then back up. “—something else entirely.”

Your stomach knotted, heat licking up your spine in a way you refused to acknowledge. “Please. You couldn’t handle me if you tried. And let’s be honest — you’re arrogant, manipulative, and you don’t give a damn about me. You only care about the crown. That’s why.”

“Liar.”

The word was soft, but it cracked through the space between you like a whip.

Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

He stepped impossibly closer, closing the scant inches left, his knuckles grazing the back of the chair as his other hand braced beside you. The warmth radiating from him was almost suffocating, his cologne sharper in the quiet. “If all it was, was the crown,” he murmured, “you wouldn’t be breathing like this right now. And you wouldn’t look at me like you’re daring me to cross the line.”

You swallowed hard, stubbornly holding your glare despite your pulse thrumming loud in your ears. “You actually think I’d ever want you?”

His smirk sharpened, slow and dangerous, as though he were savoring the taste of your defiance. “No,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed warm against your cheek, “I think you already do… and that’s why you hate me. And as for handling you, Your Highness—” his voice dipped lower, silk edged with steel “—I could manage you just fine. In fact, I could teach you a thing or two about decorum.”

Then his tongue clicked softly, and that infuriating note of mock disappointment slid into his voice. “Y’know… leaving an entire crowd out there waiting for their blushing bride-to-be. For our wedding.”

Your pulse was a war drum, every nerve pulled taut with the knowledge that you should shove him back, carve him open with something cutting and final — but instead, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a smile far too sweet to be sincere. “Better they wait now,” you said lightly, “than watch me trip over my train running from the altar.”

The jab landed — you saw it in the faint narrowing of his eyes, the subtle shift of his jaw. “Careful, my queen,” he murmured, voice a shade lower to mock your incoming title, almost dangerous. “You keep talking like that and I’ll have to give them a different kind of show.”

“Oh, bite me,” you scoffed, the words sharp enough to cut.

It didn’t matter — didn’t even land — because Remmick’s attention had already drifted, zeroing in on the subtle shift of your thighs as they pressed together beneath the layers of silk. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, dangerous in its quiet focus. His gaze lingered a beat too long, tracking the movement like he was cataloguing it, filing it away for later, and when his eyes met yours again, there was a heat there that made the air between you feel suddenly, unbearably thin.

“You really want to give me ideas?” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed you. “You couldn’t keep up.”

His smirk widened — slow, dangerous. “I could run you into the ground before you even caught your breath.”

“You’re all talk,” you shot back, your hand hit his chest as you stepped forward, unwilling to be caged in any longer.

“Try me,” he said, and before you could muster another insult, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t courtly. It was a collision — teeth clashing, hands grabbing, both of you shoving for dominance. His hand found the small of your back, hauling you flush against him, while yours gripped the front of his half-undone shirt, twisting in the fabric like you were trying to pull him closer and push him away at the same time.

“You—” kiss “—are—” kiss “—impossible,” you managed between gasps.

“And you—” he broke to nip at your bottom lip “—don’t know when to shut up.”

You were ready with a retort, but it dissolved into a gasp when he backed you into the armchair and pressed you down into it. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower, following the frantic rhythm of your breathing.

“W-what are you—”

“Making you quiet,” he muttered against the swell of your thigh as he knelt.

Your heart lurched, but before you could summon a single cutting word, his hands were already on you — greedy, deliberate — gathering your skirts in rough fistfuls until the cool air kissed bare skin. Then he was there, sinking lower, shoulders wedged between your knees, head dipping into the space that made your pulse roar in your ears.

“God…” his voice was low, reverent in a way that made it worse, “so damn pretty under all this, aren’t you? No wonder you’re so mouthy—you’ve been walking around like this.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, your face burning the same deep shade as the velvet armchair he had you sprawled across, skirts bunched high and dignity in tatters. You open your mouth to retort, but he’s already closing in on where you want him most, caging your legs over his shoulders.

“You son of a-” 

“Shut up,” he says, low and mean, dragging his mouth over the inside of your thigh. “You talk too much.”

Your breath catches—traitorous, humiliating—and before you can fire off the insult bubbling on your tongue, his teeth are scraping over your lower stomach, sharp enough to make your skin prickle. He doesn’t just pull your panties down; he drags them off, slow, deliberate, the damp fabric caught between his teeth until the elastic snaps free of your hips. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time, mouth curling around a smirk as he lets the panties drop to the floor. “Look at that…” he murmurs, almost sweet, and it makes you want to slap him and ride his face in the same breath.

“It’s not even for you,” you snap, though it comes out thinner than you’d like, all breath and bravado. He proves just how pathetic the attempt is by sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, hard enough to make you yelp. The sting blooms hot, and you can feel his smirk against your skin when he pulls back.

“Sweetheart, that’s a lie we both know you can’t hold onto.” His tongue drags over you in one slow, wet stroke—obscene, deliberate—from the slick heat of your entrance all the way up to your clit. The sound he makes is low and guttural, like you’ve just given him oxygen after years without it. “Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just far enough for you to see the way his lips shine with you. “Look at you.”

Your grip on the chair arms tightens until your knuckles ache. “You’re unbearable.”

He just grins against you, hot breath ghosting over your cunt until you can feel it in your spine. “And you taste better than I imagined—” his voice dips to something darker, hungrier, “—and believe me, I’ve imagined.”

You bite down hard on your lip, but it’s no use—he’s already spitting on you, a slow, deliberate drop that lands warm and wet right over your clit. It mixes with your slick, spreading in lazy rivulets, and his thumb smears it in with maddening slowness.

“Now you’re messy,” he says, almost fond, before his mouth seals around you again. His tongue flicks in ruthless, steady bursts, and when you try to twist away from the overstimulation, his arms band around your thighs like steel. “No more running, sweetheart. Not until you cum all over my face.”

That cocky tone does it—you shove at his shoulders, forcing him back onto the carpeted floor, and then you’re climbing over him, bracing your knees against the sides of his head. His head tips back just enough to look up at you through half-lidded eyes, a slow grin breaking over his face.

“Gonna use me, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” you breathe, grinding down onto his mouth. The moan he gives you is filthy, hungry, vibrating against your clit until your head tips back. He grips your hips in bruising hands when your own tug at his hair, dragging you over his mouth in a rhythm that makes you shake. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every suck meant to wring another sound out of you.

“Fuck—Remmick—”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even ease up when your thighs start trembling around his head. He just growls into you, and the vibration punches the air out of your lungs. You chase the high shamelessly now, riding his face until you break apart with a strangled cry.

You slump forward, your hands catching yourself, causing your skirt to slip down to drape over his face, trapping the heat of his breath against your bare skin. His panting is muffled beneath the fabric, hot and uneven, and you can feel the curve of his grin even without seeing it. Slowly, you shift back, settling onto his lap—only to gasp softly when you feel the thick, unyielding press of him beneath you and remember you’re bare.

Your eyes dart instinctively to the floor in search of your panties, but you don’t get the chance. He moves first—reaching down, snagging the scrap of fabric from where it’s crumpled near his boot, and tucking it into his back pocket with an infuriatingly casual flick of his wrist.

You blink at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” he drawls, sitting up slightly on his forearms. His eyes sweep over you in slow possession, and then his mouth twists into something darker. “Gonna keep ’em there all night. Maybe pull ’em out later when I’m thinking about that pretty little pussy dripping on my face.”

Your breath stutters, your thighs clenching involuntarily, and he smirks like he’s caught you in the act. “Souvenir,” he repeats, voice low and smug, “and a promise.”

The sharp rap of a knock interrupts the charged air between you, followed by a muffled, “Princess? Your grandmother demands your presence…”

You glare at him, straightening your skirt. “This isn’t over.”

“Not even close.”

Minutes later, the two of you are stepping out into the bright, punishing glare of the press. Cameras flash like lightning, the hum of voices swelling as they catch sight of you both. You’ve slipped seamlessly into your public face—chin high, smile poised—but you can feel him behind you, a dark, smug shadow who knows you’re bare under the silk.

You stop just short of the velvet rope, eyes glittering, and glance up at him with mock sweetness. “Oh, silly, you have something on your face.”

The crowd laughs, charmed by the teasing, and the photographers surge forward for a better shot. You reach up, fingertips brushing along the sharp edge of his jaw, and theatrically wipe at the corner of his mouth—the very spot where you know your cum had been minutes ago.

The onlookers eat it up, snapping furiously as he tilts his head down to meet your touch. To them, it’s a playful, harmless moment. To you, it’s victory. To him, it’s revenge.

"...judging by the way he’s still smirking for the cameras with my panties in his pocket, that provocation is coming sooner than I thought."